When I started my freshman year of high school at Patrick Henry High I was happier than most men of my age and kind of life. For the first thing, my father was very rich, something we don’t talk about much in America but which does a lot to determine our baseline of comfort or unhappiness. For the second, I was already an extraordinarily talented athlete. I was gifted at sports in general – I was a stupendous long-distance runner and I probably could have been a great gymnast, I was excellent at baseball and football – but at nothing in the world was I better than basketball. I was lucky because my local team at Patrick Henry had been one of the best in the state for years, and I wanted desperately to join the men on the court as soon as I could. Of course, basically every man in the school wanted to be on the basketball team, because their phenomenal success and oddly uniform physical beauty made them some of the most sexually lionized men probably alive in America at the time; they literally had their choice of sexual partners among all the women in our extremely large high school, and, according to rumor, a fair portion of the mothers in the district too. I thought that there were very few things finer than the chance to play on and off the court with Patrick Henry High’s Raiders. I was aided in this desire both by my spectacular athleticism and my even more spectacular physical beauty. This is another thing we aren’t supposed to talk about when we’re fortunate enough to have it on our side, but I can’t really ignore it in my case. I’m like a male Helen of Troy. I’m a caricature of male perfection: hugely broad shoulders, narrow waist, perfectly formed ass, well-defined back and so on. You get the picture. I tanned naked by the pool when my parents were gone on the weekend – which was almost all the time – which added the last element of ideal magnificence to my black-haired green-eyed glory. Often, I'd just stand in the bathroom, staring at myself in the mirror and questioning whether the world had been right to give me to women.

I was terrified. Why? Because the Raiders had extremely high standards for joining the varsity team. Tryouts lasted for two weeks in the fall before conditioning began. The first week was designed to eliminate the players who simply couldn’t meet the standard, while the second week was devoted to more exacting comparisons of skill. During the second week, though, the coaches permitted the team to take the guys who had made it through the first week of tryouts for special “team-building exercises” in the locker room. These unsupervised “exercises” let the guys on the team determine who they thought had the chops to join them in their orgies and their sex-games: it was a pretty open secret that the varsity players put the prospectives through a demanding series of sexual exams, and their feedback played an important role in the coach’s choice of who made the team.
And it was this that had me terrified, the thought of entering the hallowed ground of the varsity locker room for the first time, where famously no one, the coach and female guests included, was permitted to wear any clothes once they walked through the door. It was for this reason that the Raiders coach tended to be unusually young and fit. It’s a difficult thing to command the fear, respect, and obedience of a roomful of naked sexual gods, especially when you’re naked yourself, and as each coach got older he lost the physical self-confidence necessary to pull off such an impressive feat and had to be replaced, always with a recent alumnus of the team who were still in the area. Incidentally, the basketball coach was, if anything, even more sexually masterful than his players, and routinely made the rounds of the junior and senior girls during team orgies.
So you can see, from this description, why it was that any man with a cock wanted on this team. It was like a ticket to paradise, a perfect high-school fraternity, Fast Times at Cumhard High. And, as you might imagine, I was in pretty good position for this group of gigolo jocks, as an absurdly handsome and magnificently athletic basketball star. I already had had a taste of what the life of the varsity players was like. It couldn’t be helped; when I strode lithely across the lunchroom women stopped and stared. When I walked into my classes female teachers clenched their knees tightly together. I was working out regularly to get in shape for tryouts, and the disruption of my shirtless lifting schedule had become so well-known that very few dudes tried to lift during my time; women only came to stare. Several times over the early fall different older girls had propositioned me, flashed me their bare pussies in class, trying to entice me into fucking them. There was a pretty large pool going in the cheerleading squad about which of those incredible beauties would enjoy me first; three of the hottest senior girls had joined forces and tried to drag me forcibly into the bathroom to slake their lust. And on that occasion I had almost given in.

Which would have been the end of me, because of the one detail we haven’t talked about yet. Despite my immense beauty and my incredible body and everything else, the Universe had played one devastating, ruinous prank on me: my penis was tiny. Ridiculously, laughably small. Soft, it was an inch and a half long and the diameter of a pencil. At its ready-to-snap hardest, it was just over three inches, and about as thick as my smallest finger. My balls were, if anything, even smaller; they looked like a sack of marbles. I had so little semen I couldn’t get it up more than once a day, and when I came (a difficult task; I was so small I couldn’t even get one finger wrapped around the fucker, so I had to masturbate by humping the bed laboriously) it looked like someone had spilled a tiny little eyedropper of semen. Pissing was impossible. I was too small to reach the urinal, so I had to pee sitting down, and even so I splashed the seat half the time. Orgasming wasn’t even particularly fun; it lasted for about a second and felt a little like a good stretch. I flopped an unlucky set of genetic cards in the dick department.

The worst thing, though, was that everyone thought I was hung like a horse, what with my six-foot-four-inch height and my huge hands and my size fifteen shoes. The running consensus among the women I had refused to bang, despite their desperate efforts to win me over, was that I was embarrassed of the unusually large size of my worthless cock. If only they had known.

Things were getting more and more dangerous for me, and I was getting terrified about the team-building exercises. Twenty times I had woken up in the middle of a nightmare where I had strolled into the lockerroom, pulled off my shirt revealing my godlike torso, and then dropped my pants showing off the shame of my crotch; I always woke up lying in bed still hearing the roars of laughter from the guys on the team as they threw me out into the hall. I didn’t know what to do. Night after night I would frantically hump my mattress until my weak orgasm passed over me like a little shadow and left my pathetic stain on the sheet – so tiny I didn’t even worry about my mom discovering it – and then lie there, panting in fear, until I couldn’t stay awake any more. It was horrible.